


you shine around me like a million suns

by girl0nfire



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Cunnilingus, F/M, Family, Happy Ending, Multiverse, Soulmates in Every Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:18:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a BuckyNat Secret Santa prompt: "Bucky and Natasha meet (intensely) during Howling Commandos time".</p><p>Or, Four Universes Where Bucky and Natasha Crossed Paths During WWII and the One Universe Where They Didn't Have Time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you shine around me like a million suns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saturnmeetsmercury (jarofhearts)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofhearts/gifts).



> My BuckyNat Secret Santa 2015 gift for [saturnmeetsmercury](http://www.saturnmeetsmercury.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.
> 
> Thanks to my super-rad beta who helped me write this fic: [schlicky](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/schlicky). Without this wonderful lady this 100% would not exist. 
> 
> (Title from The Beatles' "Across the Universe", because well, I'm about as subtle as a sledgehammer.)

The sun is barely up, pale gold just beginning to stream weakly through the faded yellow curtains Natasha hung up when they first moved in, but from where Bucky’s seated, in the center of their tiny kitchen on the one uneven dining chair, even the softest beams of light are beautiful once they reach her.

Natasha’s standing in front of him, one hand carding slowly through his hair as she trims it, her mouth set in a quiet, unreadable line, and the kitchen is silent except for the raspy sound of her old sewing scissors and the measured, calming rhythm of her breath.  She’s wrapped up in one of his sweaters, still in her nightdress; it’s the one Bucky bought her for Christmas after they found out she was expecting and he knew soon enough none of her old ones would fit.  He’d pinched nickels off his paychecks for weeks to save up for the pale green satin gown, and even if the little bits of lace are hidden under his cardigan, it still looks amazing on her, _everything_ does, she’s -

“Tash - “

Her lips finally twist into a gentle smile when Bucky reaches up to slide his palms over the growing curve of her belly, nudging the edges of his sweater open to frame her stomach with his hands.  Natasha pauses in her work, one hand cradling the back of his head when he leans in to rest his forehead against the small, soft swell of her body beneath the silken fabric, his arms coming up to circle around her hips and hold her closer to him.  Vaguely, Bucky hears the clatter of her sewing scissors on the counter beside them, and then Natasha’s arms move to loop around his shoulders, one hand still carding gently, reassuringly through his hair, and for all of Bucky’s worry about leaving things unsaid, he can’t think of a single word that’s worth breaking the silence.

The sun is nearly risen, high enough now to skim the rooftop of the building next door and as the morning’s light fills the room it glints from the brass buttons of Bucky’s uniform jacket, slung over the back of the other dining chair.  His marching orders are pinned up on the icebox, the U.S. Army seal standing out against the creased pages, nearly torn from folding and re-folding and traveling in Bucky’s pocket for days before he had the heart to tell her, before he -

But she’d beat him to it and sat him down first, smiling that brilliant, wry half-smile of hers and beaming at him as she took his hand and rested it on her stomach, her eyes shining when they met his.  And that was - he couldn’t wait any longer, then, he couldn’t, so he told her, handed her the letter and held her as she cried and carried her to bed and kissed her the way he’d promised he always would, slow and sure and soft, until there wasn’t a tear left on her cheeks.  

They made love while the sun came up and she’d held him so close he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to leave her, not now, not like this, not before -

“You better hurry home, James Barnes,” Natasha whispers into his hair, the ghost of a smile twisting her lips when she presses them to the crown of his head.  Her fingertips find the chain just beneath the collar of his undershirt, tangling in it and sending his wedding ring clinking against the pair of shining-new dog tags hanging from his neck, and oh, they’re heavier now than ever.

She breathes his name, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard it sound unsure before.

“Come back to me.”

+

“ _Places_ , people - curtain’s in ten - hey, has anybody seen Barnes?“

The stage manager’s voice filters down the hall, borne on the current of the chorus girls’ giggles and nearly drowned out by the clatter of heels on hardwood and someone picking out warm-up scales on the backstage piano.  Ethyl and Lorraine are chattering just outside, something about how the new Hitler who signed on in Cincinnati looks without his uniform on, and Natasha bites down on a soft groan, her sharp red nails digging into his scalp.

“Hey, Cap?”

A sharp rap at the door, and there must be a look of panic on Bucky’s face when he looks up because he can _feel_ Natasha laughing, her body shivering around his fingers.  Her head is tipped back against the brightly-lit mirror, her ruffled bloomers and his bright-red gloves abandoned on the vanity counter beside her hip, and she digs her heels into his back, urging him on with a wicked, filthy grin.   _God_ , she’s -

“J-Just - just finishing up - “  
  
Another wave of laughter crashes over Natasha at the break in his voice, barely-hidden and musical, reverberating through her body and melting into a gasp when Bucky twists his fingers deep inside her in retaliation.  He throws her a dirty look, raising his eyebrows pointedly but she just busies herself smoothing the wrinkles from her red-and-white skirt, the perfect picture of amused innocence except she’s still fucking herself on his fingers, riding his hand lazily like they’ve got all the time in the whole damn world -

“Five - five minutes?  Five minutes - “

A long-suffering sigh, and then the stage manager’s heavy footsteps retreat back down the hall.  It’s barely a second longer before a delighted laugh finally tears out of Natasha when Bucky huffs out the breath he’d been holding, shaking his head, cheeks burning.

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Natasha purrs, holding his eyes as she rolls her hips down slowly again,  “Really?  Whole goddamn floor show, and _this_ is what’s gonna make you blush?”

“Hey - “

Bucky considers her face for second, obligingly crooking his fingers and buying himself a moment by dropping kisses over the inside of her knee, his free hand pushing her skirt up again.  Natasha shifts her hips closer to the edge of the counter, tilting them up invitingly, her hand sliding into his hair again and he’s going to be _a mess -_   

“People _like_ the floor show,” he counters, tracing his lips up her inner thigh and digging his teeth into the soft flesh just above where the hem of her costume falls.  He’s rewarded with another breathy laugh, a smart tug on his hair, her words running over his -  

“Bonds take a ten-percent jump in every - “

“--every state you visit, I know, _Senator_ ,” Natasha rolls her eyes, fixing him with the look she usually saves for when they’re in bed and he’s just made a particularly bad joke or forgotten to light her cigarette, and so Bucky distracts her by dipping his head beneath the hem of her skirt again, pressing his tongue to her as he twists his wrist.  The back of her head hits the mirror with a muffled _thunk_ , and soon enough the only conversation left to have is the bite of her heels against his spine, the press of her fingertips against the back of his head, the velvet grip of her body around his fingers when she shakes against him.  

They’ve been doing this a while - three months, give or take, since she signed on in Indianapolis and told him he could buy her a drink after her first rehearsal, and honestly, it took about three weeks before Bucky figured he was about as close to _addicted_ as -

“ _James_ \- “

The way she sighs out his name, the deep, delicate arch of her back he’s recognized every time he’s caught her practicing alone, worn-out pink pointe shoes gliding over empty stages in Philly, in Boston, in Chicago, the wisps of scarlet hair that escape from the neat little roll of her bangs over her forehead, the flush that paints her cheekbones just like when she dances -

She comes almost silently, and every time he pulls away just enough to see it because he’s all but starved for it, desperate for the way her teeth catch on her bottom lip, her eyes fluttering shut, how her whole body seems to curl inward before she finally just _melts_ -

Her hand always finds his cheek afterward, fingertips slowly stroking his jaw as her body relaxes, and the loose, crooked smile she gives him in that exact moment is like watching the sky break wide open.

It’s the only time she lets him tell her how beautiful she is.

But eventually, Natasha shifts back to sit against the mirror, letting her legs fall from his shoulders to dangle off the edge of the counter and reaching to slip her panties back on slowly, her hands trembling.  Bucky stands, finally, kicking his chair back and insinuating his hips between her knees to steal a kiss, batting her hands away to smooth her skirt down himself.

“You’re so much more than this, you know,” she offers a minute later, after she’s kissed herself from his lips and left just her scarlet lipstick behind.  Her cheek is resting just beside the knitted-white star on his chest while he looks over her shoulder into the mirror, fussing with his hair, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth.  Bucky catches her eye in the reflection, and she smiles again, another brilliant little secret, just like those beaten-up old pointe shoes and his father’s 107th Infantry Regiment crests hidden at the bottom of his trunk.

He drops a kiss in her hair, and she lets him hold her close for a heartbeat before the sounds of the band tuning up outside break the spell.

“So are you.”   

+

Bucky probably should’ve figured that they weren’t the _only ones_ on Schmidt’s ass.

Honestly, there had to be more people ready and willing to tear down his empire as he built it, they can’t be the only ones hot on his trail and leaving a series of bombed-out warehouses in their wake.  But -

“ _Dames_?”  Dugan sounds almost incredulous, puffing out his chest and folding his arms over it as the small group of soldiers approaches, various looks of confusion on their faces.  Steve had decided that they’d set up camp just inside the treeline and wait out the night, hoping to catch some shut-eye in preparation for an assault on Schmidt’s largest base yet in the morning.  Gabe had already started the fire, the rest of them settled comfortably around it trying to dry themselves out a bit until Steve had picked up on someone approaching.

(And honestly, Bucky’s still not used to Steve hearing _goddamn everything_ , it makes him wary of sleeping in the tent beside Steve’s if he wants to - you know, exercise his liberties - )

Which is how all seven of them had ended up with their backs on their own camp, rifles raised, only to be faced with -

“You’re sure a long way from Stalingrad,” Morita pipes up, drawing himself up to his full height - gotta square up to that full five-five, you know - and nodding toward the Soviet medals on the leader’s jacket, shining dully in the warm light of their campfire.

“Yeah, and some of the best Allied snipers come from there,” Gabe interrupts him, pushing between Dernier and Falsworth to stand at Steve’s side at the head of the group.  “Reckon these ladies are some of those, way they’re outfitted.”

“You _could_ just ask us yourselves, you know,” the blonde woman at the front takes a step forward, and then another, until she’s less than an arm’s length away from the front of Steve’s shield.

“It’s not as if you _Americans_ are known for your subtlety, either.”

Dernier chuckles under his breath, mumbling something in French that Bucky’s sure isn’t flattering and so he elbows him in the ribs, hard enough that the last bit of Jacques’ sentence leaves him in an ‘oof’.  Steve holds up his free hand, a silent order to hold, and each of them lowers their weapon, waiting.  

“My name is Yelena, and your friend is correct,” gesturing toward the rifle slung across her back, she steps to the side to motion toward the three women behind her, who break ranks to step forward and gather at her side.

“You’d be foolish to assume that the seven of you are the only thing standing in HYDRA’s way?”

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch - “

Dugan drops his arms, chuckling lightly, and Morita turns his head to glare at him behind Steve’s back, hissing.  “Hey, watch your fuckin’ language, pal, we got ladies present - “

Yelena rolls her eyes before tipping her chin up to confer directly with Steve, and as they talk, Bucky finally lets his eyes wander over the rest of her party, two brunettes and a striking redhead who catches his gaze, holding it with a mysterious, barely-there smile.

“-- could use the help,” Bucky tunes back in just as Steve is letting his shield down, sliding it off his arm and reaching back to hook it to its harness with a metallic-sounding finality.  

“What d’you say, fellas, up to sharing some rations?”

“You kidding?” Dugan adjusts his hat, sidestepping Steve to offer Yelena his hand with a ridiculous flourish.  To his credit, he doesn’t seem to take it too hard when she steps right past him, following Morita’s inviting gesture toward the small circle of packs around the fire.  Morita makes a face in Dugan’s direction and Dugan doesn’t dignify him with any answer besides flipping him the bird before heading back toward his seat beside Steve.  Bucky watches as the rest of the men sling their weapons over their shoulders, Gabe making a beeline for the taller of the two brunettes and offering her his arm - which she takes, with something that could very easily be classified as a giggle - and well, brunettes _were_ always his thing -

“Your friends are rather entertaining,” Bucky nearly jumps at the soft voice coming from just behind him, but he recovers well - yeah, right, totally - and whirls around to find that sparkling pair of green eyes fixed on him again, a tumble of scarlet curls escaping when she pulls off her hat.  He’s suddenly very aware that the rest of both of their companies have already settled around the fire, fifteen or so paces to their left, but honestly, Bucky couldn’t tear himself away from the look in her eyes if he tried.

She peels off a well-worn leather glove, the brass buttons of her jacket gleaming in the firelight, and offers him her hand.

“I’m Natalia.”

+

“You’re real pretty - “

His mouth is full of blood and bile, sour-salt and iron, but Bucky sets his teeth hard into his broken lip anyway, holding in another groan as a fresh wave of pain washes over him.  Everything’s too loud, too bright and moving too fast and then _silence_ , his ears ringing until it feels like his head is going to split -

“Now’s not really the time, Buck,” Steve’s face is ghost-white and Bucky hasn’t seen like that since - _before_ , back when blood didn’t matter so long as it washed off, and the worst they had to handle was broken radiators and Steve’s rattling cough.  He’s missing one sleeve, and where’s it -

No - _no_ , don’t -

Steve’s missing one sleeve ‘cause he tore it clean off and wound it around the empty, unfinished space where Bucky’s left arm used to be, and Bucky’s seen Steve’s knuckles bloody too many goddamn times but _this_ -

_No -_

“Landmine, just up the road to Salzburg, we were just - “

The nurse leans over him, her scarlet hair standing out stark against her white uniform, a roll of gauze in her hands and Bucky reaches for it, or tries to, _Jesus_ , where’s his - why can’t he -

“He was _scouting_ , he was scouting, and he - he must’ve tripped the - “

Steve’s out of breath like he’s been running miles, like he hasn’t been in months, and Bucky can’t look at him because there are already tears welling up in his eyes and no, his mother wouldn’t want him going out like this, not - he’s gonna be _fine_ , he’s gotta be fine, he’s gotta -

He needs to get _back_ -

“Captain Rogers,” she says evenly, her voice ringing firm enough to tear Steve’s eyes away from the blood dripping over his hands, “Captain, you’ve done a fine job but I need you to step _back_ now and allow us to work.”

It hurts to laugh, like all he’s doing is coughing up broken glass but it’s worth it, the look on Steve’s face at the order is the same stubborn one Bucky’s so goddamn used to, and they’re kids again, they’re kids and Steve’s making that face and Bucky’s picking him up off the concrete and -

See, it’s fine, he’s -

 _Jesus_ -

The room takes a sharp swing to the left, swimming grey-brown all around him but he’s not closing his eyes yet, fuck that, he’s not closing his eyes, he’s not closing his eyes, he’s not he can’t he won’t -

“Sergeant Barnes? James?”

She turns her gaze on him now, piercing green cutting through the hazy purple darkness filling the edges of his vision like the last vignette of one of those Chaplin films Steve likes, the ones they always -

“You - y’can call me - ”

He reaches out, his right hand scrabbling, missing hers until she takes it, and the crimson beneath his fingernails stands out cruel-bright against her porcelain skin just like her hair, just like -

Steve’s a smear of red-white-blue at his side and he’s gonna be - he’s gonna be fine, they’re all gonna -

They’re - they’re all gonna -

Her hand is in his hair, sticky with drying blood, and he’s -

He’s just - so _tired_ -

Is it time to go home yet?

+

The band picks up again, something slow, filling the hall with the deep, smoky swing of a torch song, the bass and piano winding around and between the couples slowly circling the small dance floor, the whole bar alight with the warmth of good music and cheap whiskey.  London’s in tatters outside, the streets broken open in places where the bombing’s been the worst, but here, inside the quiet, anonymous embrace of the bar, the only evidence that there’s a war on at all is the row of Class A jackets slung over the chairs that ring the dance floor.

Half of Bucky’s regiment is here, indulging in a few drinks and a few laughs before they ship out to the Front in Azzano later in the week.  Maybe they’re all feeling it, that sudden, dawning realization that soon enough things like dances and stolen kisses are going to be a thing of the past, just a memory to chase the chill away during long nights in the trenches.

His bunkmate’s at the bar, red-faced and grinning as he sweet-talks some curly-haired blonde, and their CO disappeared out the front door a half-hour ago, tugged along by a curvaceous brunette, her red lipstick smudged on his cheek.  He even recognizes a few familiar faces on the dance floor, more than one Private he would’ve pegged for shy wrapped around a pretty girl and swaying to the music nearby.

As for Bucky?

Well -

“You’re better at this than I thought, soldier boy,” her breath is warm against his ear, her perfume sweet and bright when he leans in to press his cheek to hers.  The trumpet player weaves a few long, mournful notes around the piano’s echoing strains and Bucky splays his right hand as low on her back as he dares, navigating them both slowly around the first curve of the floor.  She gracefully along, her fingers stroking the back of his neck idly as she holds him close and they move so seamlessly together,  fitting almost perfectly, if _perfect_ was something Bucky was allowed to think about anymore -

“I told you, sugar,” he just inclines his head slightly, all but whispering in her ear just for the rewarding shiver that works its way down her spine, the quiet, musical swing of her laugh that easily outshines every other note and chord surrounding them.  They continue their circuit of the floor, Bucky pausing at the next curve to turn her slowly beneath his arm with a flourish, meeting her smile with one of his own when he draws her back in, nearly nose-to-nose.

“Do I look like I’d lie to you?”

This close, he can watch the bar’s dim light dance in her eyes, deep green and shining brilliantly with another hidden laugh, her smile twisting up fondly on one side like tonight is something just starting, and not simply the beginning of the end.  A single auburn curl falls over her forehead, and as they slow to a stop, the piano’s last notes dissipating quietly, Bucky can’t quite stop himself from brushing it away, tucking the stray lock behind her ear and pressing his advantage, tipping her chin up with a fingertip.

But she kisses him first, beating him to it right there on the floor, slow and sure and soft and oblivious to all the other couples orbiting around them.  They’re in their own, peaceful world for a moment, somewhere outside time, and _god_ -

He doesn’t even know her name, already two drinks and four dances in, and honestly, maybe that’s easier, maybe she can just be Red and he can just be anybody she wants, another nameless GI like all the other bodies filling this bar never to return and come sunrise neither of them will have to carry the weight of a name attached to a sweet, almost-familiar face.  Maybe she needs to stay an _almost_ , a _could be_ , a _should’ve been_.

An _I wish we could._

But she doesn’t pull away until he does, brilliant green eyes locked on his and Bucky thinks about the ocean back home, the way the waves would lap against the shore on Coney Island and how they’d recede slowly, falling away until just the skeletons of the docks remained, alone.

And how they always came back in, rolling over the sand bottle-green and blue.  You just gotta be patient, and not afraid to drown.

Maybe they can be like that, instead.  

“Nice night for a walk,” she murmurs, keeping his hand in hers and tangling their fingers together like the tumblers of a lock that opens to reveal something he wasn’t quite ready for her to see.  It must show on his face, he can’t help that, but she holds his gaze anyway, a secret inside her smile he desperately wants to know.

So -

Maybe she isn’t _almost_ , maybe she’s just _not yet._

+

The third stair from the top still creaks, and Bucky makes a mental note to get on their landlady’s case about it, considering he’s been gone for nearly a year and she _still_ hasn’t gotten around to calling a handyman.  Although - maybe Bucky’ll just do it himself, because he’s got three weeks of paid leave left before he’s got to worry about finding work, and he plans on spending just about every _second_ of it at home, with -

Pausing just outside the door, Bucky holds up his hand to knock but falters.  He knows how hard this will be on her, how hard it _has been_ , all the important days he missed when he’d promised her a lifetime of having and holding and happiness.  In the pocket of his jacket there’s a thick stack of letters bound up with string, every page covered in her fluid script, pages and pages and pages of ink-stained _I love you_ s and now, the real thing is just behind this door and for some reason, it’s terrifying.

Bucky counts the fifteen seconds it takes before he hears the deadbolt slide open, and the damn door still creaks, he’s gonna have to fix that, too -

(And he sat on the hillside that overlooked the beaches at Normandy and watched the sun come up over the bloody ocean to bring an end to the longest day and night of his life and still, the way she smiles is like he’s never, ever seen a real sunrise.)

He hasn’t had any trouble filling envelopes with how much he adores her and sending them flying halfway across the world but, oh, she looks at him with the warmest welcome in her sea-green eyes and Bucky isn’t sure what there really is left to say.  So they stand there, lost inside a moment like he can’t remember being since the day they were married, when she met him at the altar of her grandfather’s church and promised him the sort of love he’d never thought he’d deserve and _all he wants_ is to kiss her, it’s all he’s wanted since the minute he left.

So he does.  

Right there in the doorway, slow and sure and soft like all the best ones are, her face cradled in his hands reminding him that they were meant for so much more than all the dark things he’s had to do.  He lets his fingers slip through her hair, combing gently through the loose scarlet curls, left down over her shoulders like she knew he always liked, and all of those _I love you_ s kept safe inside his pocket are nothing compared to the sacred, silent one she presses against his lips.

Natasha pulls away, first, finally, beaming at him like she just _knows_ that his whole universe revolves around her, and when she says his name Bucky could swear that time just _stops_.

She takes his hands, pulling him over the threshold and guiding him home like he always knew she would and as the door falls quietly closed, she nods toward the small, white bassinet tucked in the corner of their small living room, tears sparkling in her eyes.

“I’ve got somebody you should meet.”  


+

**Author's Note:**

> “So, I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you.”
> 
> \- Paulo Coelho, _The Alchemist_  
> 


End file.
